


i'll tell you a million times (if i must)

by confettitty



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, SAKUSA IS ALSO DUMB THO, alcohol use, atsumu is kind of dim, jazz ensemble!au, kiyoomi-centric, komori is there to kinda help him, no beta we die like men, sakusa falls in love easily, sakusa tries to confess to atsumu 1000 times and he fails, this is literally just a fic of them both being absolute shit at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confettitty/pseuds/confettitty
Summary: Kiyoomi tries to confess to Atsumu multiple times and finds that he isn't afraid to do it forever if he has to.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	i'll tell you a million times (if i must)

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what he expected.

Well, he _kind_ of knew. At least, when he auditioned and signed up for the “open trombone position” in this jazz ensemble he had never heard of and got the spot, he had thought he’d be the youngest one there. He had anticipated older people, perhaps an affluent group of instrumentalists with rich orchestral backgrounds and resumes with an extensive list of experience.

He could _not_ have been more wrong. His eyebrow twitches after stepping into the rehearsal room and finding someone lounging across four chairs with his phone dangerously close to his nose, another body that is sprawled over the bench by the window, half his limbs hanging off and face buried into a magazine of some sort, and a couple of small groups scattered around, bodies all huddled in semicircles like they were trying to watch some sort of video on somebody’s unlucky phone.

Kiyoomi has never felt more deceived. They look like _high schoolers._

“Hey everyo— _shit,_ fuck,” Kiyoomi hears, right as somebody walks into him from behind. He steps a foot forward to steady himself, thankful for his height and weight advantage, and turns dangerously slowly to send a death glare at the stranger that had been too busy doing something else to watch where he was going.

Kiyoomi wants to repeat: he doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe in another life, where Kiyoomi isn’t a musician and this blonde he’s staring at, whose smile seems to radiate some sort of energy Kiyoomi will never find in himself no matter how much soul-searching he implements into his daily routine, isn’t supposed to be part of this ensemble, he might have faltered.

Actually, he does a little, tries to brush it off the side, and fails. How can someone _look_ like this? Like they had just walked off the front page of a fashion magazine, or a brochure of a spa, or maybe an esthetics boutique, with the way his skin glows under the orange kiss of the evening sun. Tall, strong, and beautiful, even with the brassy hair swept to the side to reveal a forehead Kiyoomi distantly thinks about kissing, he stuns every nerve ending in Kiyoomi's body. For the first time in a terrifyingly long time, he finds himself at a loss of words. He should be introducing himself, but how can he? His mouth opens and nothing falls out. His brain is either fried, or it's working in overtime. Perhaps a bit of both. He doesn't know; only recognizes the lurching in his heart—god, he might have to make a doctor's appointment for acute arrhythmia.

“You must be Sakusa-san! Sakusa Kiyoomi? Can I call you Omi? Omi-kun?”

At first, Kiyoomi finds himself incapable of responding, but then the words reach his ears and stay, most likely due to some instinct that's kicked in to save himself from the onslaught of humiliating horror thoughts that might follow. He straightens his back and clears his throat, eyes not meeting the other’s for a numbing fear of accidentally exposing himself. "Sakusa is fine."

“Awe, c’mon Omi-Omi! Brighten up a l’il. We already got a Suna Rintarou in here, we don’t really need two, otherwise this place will _really_ be pourin’,” the blonde says with a laugh, then brushes his way right by to get his own instrument set up. Kiyoomi notes the trumpet case hanging from his hand.

From Kiyoomi’s periphery, he sees the lanky man stretched across the four chairs sit up a little and flip a middle finger in their direction. Kiyoomi’s lips are in a downturn, suddenly forgetting of his current predicament. Displeasure washes off his body in waves. This has to be a joke. These are the most laughable, most _unprofessional_ group of people ever. It looks like someone paid four thousand yen to random people they picked off the streets and threw them together to form a… whatever this is.

“Hey guys,” the blonde exclaims brightly, and Kiyoomi, once again, finds all one hundred per cent of his attention of him, “this is Sakusa Kiyoomi, our new trombonist. Omi-kun, introduce yourself!”

Kiyoomi swallows. Well, not much of an introduction to do, and he isn't the only one who thinks that way because dead-body-on-the-bench sits up with a groan and says, “Ya just fuckin’ did it for him, moron.”

They have the exact same face. Kiyoomi has to do a double-take. He drags his eyes from yellow to silver to yellow, and Yellow seems to notice because he laughs, melodious like a string symphony, and chortles out, “We’re twins. We get that look often.”

“No fuckin’ way, really?” Kiyoomi hears Silver grumble from oceans away.

“I’m Miya Atsumu, and I play the trumpet,” Yellow—Miya—speaks, sticking a hand out. Kiyoomi takes it out of obligation and gives it one, solid shake. Miya Atsumu. He’s the one he sent his audition video to, Miya Atsumu with a twin and a thebettermiya@gmail.com email that he thought little of when he first saw it.

Well, he supposes he understands now. He pulls his hand away and he suddenly misses the warmth that had been in his palm just a second ago, and mulls wordlessly over it as he gets his trombone set up. To Kiyoomi’s surprise, their first sightreading of a piece Miya introduces is not bad. It’s actually somewhat all right, so he reconsiders quitting as he packs up for the night. It’ll look good on his resume. They also mentioned a few gigs here and there, and Kiyoomi had found an ensemble after graduating only because he didn’t want to give up playing yet. The others in the ensemble aren't as bad as the first impressions he had received, but then there's Miya. Miya, who had walked into him and cursed, then smiled as though it wanted to rid Kiyoomi of all the tensions he has accumulated over his twenty-three years of living. The Miya who had shook his hand and left it with a butterfly in the middle.

Kiyoomi has to call Motoya—

“Omi-kun!”

He snaps the clamps on his trombone case closed and stands up, tries not to meet Miya’s eyes because they’re a little too bright; a little too curious. “What is it?”

“How did ya like yer first day? I know we’re not really the best and we sure look a little messy—”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you headed home?”

Kiyoomi lifts a brow. “Where else would I go?”

“Well, the night’s still young, and I was thinkin’ we could all go out to an izakaya to, y’know, loosen up a li’l, since yer still new here.” Miya’s eyes are to the ground now, so Kiyoomi thinks it’s okay to study him a bit more. He’s just slightly shorter, perhaps an inch or two, so when his head is tilted down Kiyoomi can see past the fluff of the yellow and at the beginnings of some dark brown coming in at the roots. Pretty lashes and a long slope for his nose. Strong jaw with full cheeks.

Kiyoomi needs to call Motoya.

“I can’t.”

“Why? I mean, it’s fine, but I was hopin’ you’d come since it’d be pointless without you—”

“Fine,” Kiyoomi cuts him off again, with a little more aggression than he wished for. His shoulders relax, frown lines smoothing out. “I’ll go. Email me the details.”

Kiyoomi makes it past the door just as he hears an echo of a voice he’s sure will be in his dreams tonight, _“Email?_ Did he really just say that?”

“No, Motoya, you don’t _understand_ —”

“No, _you_ don’t understand!”

Kiyoomi sighs, buttoning the top button of his dress shirt and then undoing it again. It doesn’t look right no matter how he plays with it. His phone is somewhere behind him, tossed between the plumps of his comforters, and Motoya’s voice spills through the speakers.

“What’s the big deal anyway?”

Motoya repeats in a voice Kiyoomi assumes is supposed to be an imitation of his, _“What’s the big deal anyway_ —do you _not_ know what you just said to me? Pretty face, blonde hair, nice smile? I didn’t think you were the type to gain a crush over one encounter.”

Kiyoomi snatches up his phone and stresses his words into the receiver. “I don’t have a _crush.”_

“So then why are you calling me?”

He huffs through his nose, short and petulant, and finds himself at a loss for words. He doesn’t know why he called him, just knew that he _had_ to. Kiyoomi definitely does not have a crush. He just thinks that Miya was, all things considered (and there’s a lot that he’s considered), the least expected hurricane to have entered his life, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do to counter the mess of a tornado it has instigated inside Kiyoomi's heart and mind.

And _yes,_ he knows that it was only for two hours that they had been around each other, but Kiyoomi is known to catch feelings quickly, although it’s only happened twice in his life. Those crushes lasted a while—this one surely will have the same effect, right? He's not saying he _caught feelings,_ but he did catch _something._ He has never once in his life wished to be sick, whether it be to whip up an excuse to not take an exam or go to a lecture, but god, did he wish it was a cold instead.

“Kiyo?” Motoya asks.

“What?”

“Why don't you just... try to get to know him at the izakaya. It might help more if you know him a little more besides the fact that you think he’s got very kissable—”

Kiyoomi hangs up before he can finish that line, but he finishes it in his head himself anyway. He glances at the mirror, black dress shirt crisp and pressed, coupled with a pair of black slacks. His top button is undone, and he says fuck it, grabs a thin blazer, and leaves. When he arrives at the izakaya, a short walking distance from his home, he sees his reflection again in the glass of the window as he passes by, and hesitates.

His fingers reach up to undo the second button, and then he walks in.

“Omi-kun, you made it!” Kiyoomi hears him first before seeing, and then distantly remembers him wearing something different earlier that evening. If he notes the way the bangs look like they have been freshly combed up and to the side with waxed fingers, then he pretends like he doesn’t, since Kiyoomi had spent some time on his own curls himself, not that it’d ever be a topic of interest with the group, who seem to be one too many drinks in already.

Miya shoves his brother to the side with his hips to allow room for Kiyoomi, resulting in a scoff and a grumble from the latter. “Here, sit next to me.”

And he does. Miya asks him what he likes and it takes a second too long for Kiyoomi to realize he’s asking about what he likes to _drink_ and not the hundreds of ideas that surface to his mind with the lack of context.

“Sapporo’s fine.”

Miya’s lips curl up slyly. “Didn’t peg you as a beer guy, if I’ma be honest.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what _do_ you like?”

When Kiyoomi said Sapporo was fine, it really was. He can’t say he’s a big lover of beer, but he can sit through a couple rounds if everyone else is drinking the same thing. He still answers, though, “I prefer sake.”

“Then let’s get some sake!” Miya ends up ordering two beers _and_ house sake, a cup for each around the table. When it comes, Kiyoomi stares at the bubbles fizzing in his beer with dread. He’s had alcohol before, and he’s not exactly a lightweight (he likes to think his tolerance has built somewhat over the years), but he has a feeling he’s going to be staring down at his feet the entire walk home just to make sure he’s walking in a straight line. More than anything, he's afraid he'll say something he doesn't mean to say—at least, not yet, he thinks.

“So,” Miya starts, pouring sake into Kiyoomi’s cup, “tell me about yerself.”

“What a terrible way to start a conversation,” Kiyoomi mutters out, reaching for the sake afterward to pour into Miya’s cup. “I went to business school.” Kiyoomi looks up alarmingly when Miya makes a gagging noise at the back of his throat, relieved to find he’s only faking it. He frowns.

 _“Business school?_ That’s awful! Whaddaya do for work then?”

“I’m a communications analyst for my father’s company.”

Miya snorts, takes a sip of his beer, and speaks over the lip of his glass. Kiyoomi tries not to stare too hard at the way Atsumu's upper lip push and bounce back against the rim. “I'll just pretend I even know what that means.”

“Where do you work?”

“I don’t—not yet. I’m still completing my apprenticeship.”

“For?”

“Tattoos. Y’know, bzz bzz?” He creates a gesture midair like he’s holding a pen and wiggles his hand. Kiyoomi’s brows lift to his forehead; it’s not something he had expected, but he can sort of see how Miya can fit into an industry like that. At this point, Kiyoomi is starting to see the resemblance between Miya and a burning fire. He's terribly unpredictable, catches Kiyoomi off guard in so many different ways he could never have seen coming, and part of him forebodes over knowing he might not hate it.

“Do you have any?”

“Yeah, a couple. Got one on my back and my calf. Wanna see?” He’s pulling up the cuff around his ankles before Kiyoomi can even respond, and he zones in immediately on the shaded details of what looks like the tail of a large koi fish in the water, but he can’t see the rest because, the second thing he immediately notices, Miya can’t roll it any higher.

Kiyoomi reaches for his beer and sips at it. “It’s nice.”

“Ya can’t really see it. Jeez, these jeans are a bit of a pain in the ass. Sorry, I’ll show ya the rest of it next time.”

“You don’t have…” His words trail off when Miya knocks back the rest of what’s left in his first beer, chin lifted and throat bobbing with every swallow. He looks away immediately, forcing himself to focus on the hand-painted banners of squids and fishes with big bubbly eyes along the walls.

He clears his throat when he hears the clink against the table. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Where were you born?”

“Hyogo, born and raised.”

“Where did you attend university?”

This must be what Motoya meant by getting to know Miya, right? His questions don’t stop there, and he’s pretty sure Miya gives him a bit of an odd look at some point, but he doesn’t ask about it. Eventually, he starts asking some questions of his own, like, “how did you hear about us?” or, “how long have you been playing the trombone?” which Kiyoomi provides answers for easily.

He leaves with about a quarter of his beer remaining in his glass and makes sure Miya hears him say goodnight before splitting for their separate ways outside the izakaya. The walk home is, for the most part, normal, but Kiyoomi finds his mind drifting off to Miya talking and laughing about how he was afraid Kiyoomi hated him for accidentally bumping into him earlier that day and would “use his trombone to poke at” the back of his head during their rehearsal. It was a bit specific, and Miya had clarified that a trombone player who used to really despise him back in high school would do that every chance he got.

His key slips into his lock and he thinks about how it would feel to slip his hand into Miya’s own, which had accidentally brushed against his knuckles under the table that night. He showers and has to press his hands against the tiles of his wall while inhaling in deeply to will this stupid crush of his to go away—at least enough for him to sleep all right tonight.

Needless to say, he doesn’t. He tosses and turns and ends up calling Motoya’s number, who picks up on the first ring.

“Kiyo! How’d it go?” Motoya’s voice filters through and Kiyoomi puts it on speaker so he doesn’t have to hold his phone to his ear.

“I can’t sleep.”

“So it went well?”

“... Yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

Kiyoomi blinks up at his ceiling, a hand tucked under his head and the other one curling into the sheets resting on his abdomen. “He’s older than me by a little. He can play the guitar, and he can drink approximately four beers until he gets somewhat tipsy. He’s a little loud, but he has a pretty smile. His eyes do this thing like—I don’t know—they light up? It’s hard to look away. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

It’s silent on the other end, so Kiyoomi swallows a lump in his throat, like he just now realizes how all of his words sounded; thinking back to his little burst of a ramble raises a humiliated flush to his cheeks. “Moyota?”

“Sounds a little like… you’ve got a crush,” and he sounds serious this time, the emphasis behind it horrifyingly different from the teasing one Motoya had pushed earlier that evening. He’s right. Kiyoomi has a crush. He’s crushing— _hard._

So now he’s got two options. He can tell Miya he likes him, let him know that he isn’t expecting anything in return (especially since they’ve only, what, known each other for five hours, accumulated?) and leave the ensemble if Miya is uncomfortable, or—

“Why don’t you try asking him on a date? It’s not very late right now, message him and see what he’s up to. At the very least, try to develop some sort of a friendship right now,” Motoya suggests.

Kiyoomi nods to himself. Yeah. All right. That sounds like a good start. He’ll get to truly know Miya, develop a better connection and see if things work out well enough for Kiyoomi to consider making a move. That’s not too bad. It’s almost eleven, and he has a feeling Miya isn’t the type to be much of an early bird.

Except, “I don’t have his number.”

“You _what?”_

Kiyoomi repeats, thinking Motoya hadn’t heard him the first time. “I don’t have—”

“No, I _heard_ you, I just—how do you _not_ have his number? How have you been contacting him? _Email?”_ Motoya cackles loudly, like he has just made the funniest joke ever, but Kiyoomi can’t find the amusement in it.

“Yes.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” his cousin says, voice clipped with—what Kiyoomi thinks is—a little bit of disappointment. “Okay, just ask him for his number tomorrow.”

They end their conversation shortly thereafter. When Kiyoomi picks up his phone, mind suffocating with thoughts full of Miya and his attentive honey eyes and warm smiles, his finger ghosts over his inbox, a tiny red bubble layered over the corner.

From: thebettermiya@gmail.com

hope u got home safely xoxo

“XOXO?” Kiyoomi mumbles to himself curiously, then sends back a reply, making sure to triple check if everything is spelled correctly, even though it’s a single-lined email.

To: thebettermiya@gmail.com

I did. I assume you have as well. Have a goodnight, Miya. xo

So Kiyoomi’s plan springs into action—well, Motoya’s, he supposes. His first attempt at asking Miya out starts off all right. They don’t see each other until two weeks later on a Friday night (Atsumu took into consideration a couple of the ensemble members' request for some days off), when Kiyoomi gets off work and arrives at their rented practice room the same way he had come that first time. Suna Rintarou is showing Miya’s twin brother something on his phone, and Miya is late, again. He’s beginning to think he’s not very good at being punctual.

This time Kiyoomi doesn’t stand by the door for the fear that Miya might accidentally collide against him again, but stays just beside it as he puts his instrument together.

He hears the running down the hall and then sees the sneakers from his periphery, knows it’s him when there’s a familiar voice above him singing out, “Hey guys! Sorry I’m a li’l late. Oh, hey, Omi-kun! How was work?”

Kiyoomi gets up with a grunt, folder with his repertoire tucked under one arm. “It was fine.”

Rehearsal runs normally, and it isn’t until most people have left, with Kiyoomi lagging behind purposefully with the excuse of helping Miya put the chairs and music stands away, that he approaches him silently. Miya thanks him for his help and tells him he doesn’t have to if he has something important to run to since, according to him, Kiyoomi seems “like a man who’s got a lot of meetings to go to,” which he doesn’t.

His first attempt, in his head, proceeds much smoother than what actually comes out of his mouth. He’s supposed to ask Miya for his number, and then ask him what his schedule looks like. It doesn’t go that way, because Kiyoomi states, “Miya, give me your number.”

And Atsumu laughs—throws his head back with a cackle and had they been closer he might have seen the way his eyes glisten over with tears that don’t fall quite yet. “Geez, don’t gotta be like that about it. I was gonna give it to ya anyway, since we’ve got a group chat runnin' on Facebook. Ya still use that, right? Facebook?”

“I’m twenty-three, I’m not that much younger than you.”

Miya’s laughter has died down to something like a few huffs of breathy chuckles. “Right,” he says, then holds a hand out. Kiyoomi glances at it, sees the bumps of calluses running along the top of his palm and the way the folds of his hands are a telling sign of a free soul, easy to read, _loves easily,_ and then promptly slides his phone into it.

“What is your schedule like?”

“Well, I’m at the shop on the weekdays, but we practice Friday nights, Saturday afternoons, and Sunday nights. Shit, did I forget to send ya that information? I’ll email ya—or, I guess I can just send it to ya since you’ve got my number now,” he says with a grin and holds Kiyoomi’s phone up with a small wave, and hands it back to him.

That is not at all what Kiyoomi had meant, but Miya doesn’t give him much of a chance to clarify because he’s grabbing his trumpet case and urging them out so he can lock up.

“Also, please call me Atsumu. Yer seriously gonna ruin a lotta things callin’ me Miya when my brother’s around. See ya around, Omi-Omi!” He leaves in the opposite entrance of where Kiyoomi’s car is parked.

So, Kiyoomi starts calling him Atsumu, and true to Atsumu’s words, he finds his number added to a group chat on his Facebook Messenger app. When he gets home, Motoya gives him an earful.

“I told you to _be cool_ about it!”

“But I got his number.”

“Yeah, but you demanded for it. _Demanded!_ That isn’t the same thing as _asking,_ Kiyo!”

Kiyoomi scoffs, phone sitting somewhere on the counter as he swings open his fridge door to find something to make for dinner. He frowns down at its empty shelves, then moves on to the pantry. He’s in dire need of a late-night grocery run.

“What’s next?” he asks, a granola bar he had scavenged raised to his lips.

“Maybe text him?”

“That’s weird.”

“How on _earth_ is that weird? He literally gave you his number!”

“Yeah, to add me to a _group chat.”_

Motoya sighs excessively into his receiving end. “That’s on you. Couldn’t you have been clearer with your intentions?”

“He’s not going to think I’m brewing a crush over him after a week, Motoya.”

“Just give it a try? It can’t be that bad.”

Kiyoomi snaps, “Fine. I have to go, goodnight.”

The grocery store isn’t too far away, but Kiyoomi takes his car anyway because he doesn’t exactly want to be carrying bags straining into his fingers (which he cherishes very much, thank you) for the whole ten minutes of the walk back, so he takes his car. Just before he gets out, however, he types out an impromptu text to Atsumu and sends it before he can overthink it and regret it.

To: Miya Atsumu

[23:08] I hope you got home safely.

He’s in the cereal aisle when a text comes back.

From: Miya Atsumu

[23:11] i did !! i assume u did too

It’s like that time after the izakaya, except it’s easier and faster than email, and Kiyoomi doesn’t feel a little awkward asking someone about their day anymore, except he doesn’t know where to carry the conversation from here. What is he supposed to say? Goodnight? No, that would end it there. How was your day? But Kiyoomi had just seen him a couple of hours ago. He doesn’t have to do much thinking because Atsumu sends a follow up message.

From: Miya Atsumu

[23:11] how was ur day?

[23:11] lol actually i already asked that didnt i? ignore me HAHA

To: Miya Atsumu

[23:11] Don’t apologize, it’s fine. It was all right. I’m at the grocery store, so I suppose my day hasn’t ended yet.

Kiyoomi hits send and pushes his cart into the next aisle to get some more tea. He’s just beginning to run out of jasmine and is glad he remembers because he can’t go long without a cup a day.

He hears a laugh from next to him, then sees the hand that reaches out to grab the can of _hojicha_ a foot away. Stunned, and a little embarrassed, since he’s in a pair of sweatpants and a white fall sweater he had pulled out of his closet absentmindedly, he turns to see the flop of yellow hair, pink lips stretched into a smile, and eyes cast to his phone.

Kiyoomi is distantly aware of the fact of his own phone vibrating in his pants pocket but doesn’t make a move for it when Atsumu lowers his phone and raises his eyes, which widen upon recognition.

“Oh.”

There’s a beat of silence for a moment, of them just staring at each other, unmoving. Kiyoomi’s hand is still hovering over his box of jasmine tea, sitting on its shelf and untouched, and Atsumu is clutching his own can of tea leaves like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Kiyoomi clears his throat, then slides the tea box off the shelf. “Shopping?”

“Uh, yeah,” Atsumu responds easily, coolly, like they both hadn’t just been shocked to see each other at the grocery store at forty-five to midnight, and laughs sheepishly. “Guess I can say my day hasn’t ended either.”

It’s beginning to feel awkward. He tries—he really does. Small talk isn't his strong suit, but he supposes with Atsumu he can hold on for just a bit longer. It's, apparently, the way to someone's heart. Kiyoomi’s fingers curl over the bar of the cart, insides of his cheeks chewed raw as he considers his next words. “Ah, well—good talk,” is what he settles for and manages a smile like a grimace, “I have to go. See you tomorrow,” and he’s pivoting his cart, feet quickly guiding him out of the aisle. He makes conscious decisions to not head down any aisles with any blonde heads, not because he doesn't want to see Atsumu, but he's afraid that awkwardness might come back and kill whatever it is they currently have, which isn't much. Kiyoomi is just starting to get to know him, and he really doesn't want to take a step back from his end goal—whatever it is.

He does, however, pause just briefly when he catches the rainfall outside the store. It's not heavy, not enough to drench his clothes if he hadn't taken his car. Never mind that though, because Atsumu stands under the plastic roofing, just a foot away from where rainwater slides and drips off the edge of the tacky-green storefront sign above their heads. He's glancing down at his phone, thumb gliding quickly across his screen, with his grocery bags sitting on the bench next to him.

"Hey," Kiyoomi calls out. He doesn't feel awkward about it anymore. "Did you need a ride?"

Atsumu's head lifts immediately, mouth falling open. Kiyoomi thinks he's going to fall asleep tonight with perpetual dreams of a wet tongue gliding nervously over lips. "Oh, uh, nah, should be fine. It doesn't look like it's pourin' too hard."

The conversation could have ended there, but Kiyoomi doesn't want it to. He also hates the idea of driving home alone while knowing Atsumu could still be trekking in the rain with three bags of groceries in his hands. "It's fine, I don't mind. I'm not parked far." He thinks he might need a little more convincing, but then Atsumu is grinning at him, cheeks lifted high and eyes glistening with mirth.

"Yer the best, Omi-Omi! I knew it was fate we ran into each other here."

Kiyoomi snorts at that and turns away before Atsumu potentially catches his mouth curling into a smile, cheeks flushed warm. If Atsumu asks, Kiyoomi is going to blame it on the cold. He unlocks his car and puts their grocery bags in the trunk, Atsumu's on one side and Kiyoomi's own on the other. He urges Atsumu to get into the passenger side, has to fight against Atsumu's objection, as he ties up the knots of the handles to prevent anything from falling out during the ride, and then slides into the driver's side seat, acutely aware of the way his sweater sticks to the leather of the backrest. It's the least of his worries, however, as he starts the car and asks if Atsumu is cold, to which he's given a shake of his head and—god, that smile again.

"Where do you live?"

Atsumu puts his address into Kiyoomi's phone when he's handed it. "Ya give people rides in the rain often?"

"Not really," Kiyoomi responds, _just you_. He's glad Atsumu took his offer, not that Kiyoomi would've actually let him walk, because the rain starts beating down on his windshield hard enough to obscure his vision of the road. He flicks his wipers on.

"Well, yer a good guy, Omi. Think I might catch a cold just lookin' at this crap weather."

Kiyoomi should take his chance here; he should use this opportunity to ask Atsumu what he likes, what restaurants he enjoys eating at, and whether or not he's free anytime soon, but he spends just a minute too long thinking about it, because when he steals a glance off to his left, Atsumu has fallen asleep, head lulled to the side and mouth partway open. If Kiyoomi turns the music down, he'll be able to hear his little snores better, and when he completely turns it off, he tells himself it's because he doesn't want to wake him up in case a loud beat comes on.

When they arrive at the address the GPS had taken him to, Kiyoomi pauses, staring at his wipers as they squeak against the glass. He doens't want Atsumu to go; doesn't want to wake him up and have him smile and say _bye, Omi-kun! Thanks for the ride, see you next time._ He unbuckles his seatbelt quietly and tries to turn in his seat without making any noise to look at Atsumu closely. It's creepy, he knows, Atsumu is asleep and he understands the terrifying consequences of being caught if Atsumu pops his eyes open right now, but he can't help it.

Kiyoomi can't help the way his heart beats so loudly he's afraid Atsumu might wake up thinking something's wrong. He can't help how he watches the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes in and out, doesn't want to look away when the streetlamp in front of the hood of his car casts shadows of slipping water droplets along the slope of his nose and curves of his cheeks. Kiyoomi's eyes drop to his lips, pink and plump, and then the tongue that rests behind his teeth. A breath escapes past his own lips as he turns away, blush on his face, probably, a furious shade of red, and raises his hands to rub against his eyes.

How on earth can someone look like this? A clarity washes over him as he relaxes back into the seat of his car, a sort of disappointment rising in his chest when he realizes just how utterly helpless he has become when it comes to Miya Atsumu. He dares one last look at him, a little sorrowful for knowing he's probably someone Kiyoomi will never have if he doesn't take his chances, and clears his throat loud enough for Atsumu to stir a little.

"You're home," Kiyoomi tells him, voice soft. Atsumu yawns, eyes squeezes tight, and makes a little noise a bit like a whine as he regains full consciousness. "I'll help you carry your groceries in if you'd like."

"Man," Atsumu groans out and rubs his eyes. "That was the best car ride I've ever had. Had the greatest nap. Yer really the best, Omi-Omi, but don't worry 'bout the groceries, I'm sure I'll survive."

Kiyoomi's fingers hover over the button to unlock the car before he sinks them down, the audible click slicing through the silence. "No problem," he tells Atsumu and flashes a little grin. He watches raises the rear of his car as Atsumu hops out the passenger side, then wordlessly wonders what he had gotten himself in when he stepped into that rehearsal room three weeks ago as he watches Atsumu's retreating figure up the concrete steps of his apartment building.

He gets home, and stays sitting in his car for the entirety of a song he doesn't recognize playing on the radio (he had turned it back up because the silence had yielded some pretty loud thoughts that he didn't need running through his mind at this hour). He doesn’t tell Motoya about tonight because he has a feeling he’s just going to tell Kiyoomi he’s disappointed him in the million and one ways he’s able to, and pulls up his text messages with Atsumu.

From: Miya Atsumu

[23:11] seriously?? im also at a grocery store LOL i got hungry and realized i had nothing but imma blame it on samu cuz he eats almost everything under this roof

Kiyoomi types out four different messages, all of which have been long deleted because none of them seemed right, but leaving Atsumu without a reply seems a little rude, too. He turns onto his side, phone a little too close to his face but he doesn’t realize it as he lets his thumbs carefully type something out.

To: Miya Atsumu

[00:13] I like to think you got home okay.

From: Miya Atsumu

[00:13] u think so? i think so too haha

[00:13] hey seriously, thanks for tonight

[00:13] i dont really like being a burden to ppl, especially since ive only known u for three weeks

To: Miya Atsumu

[00:13] Don't worry about it. I wouldn't have liked you walking in the rain.

From: Miya Atsumu

[00:14] ur the best <3 dont sleep too late yea?? get some rest its late as hell

[00:14] goodnight omi :)

To: Miya Atsumu

[00:14] Goodnight Atsumu.

The second attempt comes just a month and a half after Kiyoomi had joined the ensemble. Atsumu is talking to them about a gig he had just been offered somewhere in Shibuya ("Shibuya!") while they pack up on a Sunday night. By this point, Kiyoomi feels like he’s getting along somewhat all right. He and Atsumu have been messaging each other occasionally, and he’s gotten a better understanding of what Atsumu is like.

Brash, a little foolish, and still very, very loud. But, Kiyoomi thinks, as Osamu whacks his repertoire folder across the back of Atsumu’s head, he’s also genuine, industrious, and devoted. He has a feeling there's a whole side of Atsumu who loves and is afraid of loving too much that he hasn't seen yet. He's also still incredibly breathtaking, even if he had come in yesterday like he had to force himself to crawl out of bed, hair disheveled and yawning through rehearsal.

“‘Tsumu, do you know how to shut the fuck up?”

Kiyoomi has no idea what they’re talking about, a little too concentrated on the way Atsumu rubs the back of his head and sticks out a foot to kick at Osamu, who dodges it swiftly. He’s in the middle of emptying his spit valve when his eyes flicker over to Suna, who’s looking directly at him. Kiyoomi has never been good at reading him, face constantly bored like he’s thinking about what he had for breakfast or what time he might fall asleep tonight, but, just for a moment, he swears he sees Suna’s lip curl up slyly, his fox-like grin a sign of knowing.

Then, it disappears, and Kiyoomi is disassembling his trombone and snapping his case closed. Atsumu appears beside him to flick his trumpet case open, grumbling something under his breath. This might not be the best time to say it, but Kiyoomi tries to look to where the grass is greener, and speaks, “I like you.”

Atsumu glances at him, quizzical. “Huh? You like what?”

Perhaps Kiyoomi had spoken too quietly, but now that Atsumu is asking him, he can’t find the nerves in him to repeat it. He swallows, fingers curling hard enough into the handle of his case for it to dig into his skin, and opens his mouth.

“Oi, ‘Tsumu!”

Their heads snap in the direction of Atsumu’s twin, and the words die down on Kiyoomi’s tongue, buried under and pushing up daisies.

“What?” Atsumu snaps, looking thoroughly annoyed at the smirk on his brother’s face, who seemed to like the reaction.

“Was just gonna grab some food on the way home. Suna’s gonna come over. Didja want anything?” Osamu says, arms perched on top of his tuba case.

“Sure, get me whatever.” Atsumu turns to look at Kiyoomi, whose heart leaps to his throat. “Sorry, what were ya sayin’?”

Kiyoomi offers a quick smile, just a twitch of his lip corner, and gets up. “Nothing important. Have a goodnight.”

For afternoon rehearsal the following week, Kiyoomi arrives a little earlier than usual. He had overestimated how much time he needed to run an errand for his mother and couldn’t make the trip back home, otherwise he would’ve just had to leave immediately upon arrival to make it in time to warm up on his instrument.

Atsumu and Osamu come in a little later, and Kiyoomi’s mouth runs dry at the sight of Atsumu, laughing over something his brother tells him—something he can’t find it in himself to focus on, especially with the way Atsumu’s hair looks. It’s different from his usual, no product, nothing. It looks unbelievably soft, despite the damage bleaching had probably done to it, like the strands would filter through his fingers easily if he runs his hand through it.

Atsumu catches Kiyoomi staring and bounces over, exclaiming out, “Mornin’, Omi-Omi! Yer here early.”

Kiyoomi saves the explanation because Osamu rolls his eyes at how Atsumu flops into the chair right next to his, arm pressed warm against Kiyoomi’s own. He feels his breathing stutter and chooses to put his interest in the black notes littered along his repertoire on his music stand.

“You didn’t do your hair this morning,” Kiyoomi comments, aware of how his voice sounds when it cuts through the silence of the room.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I got a little lazy today,” Atsumu responds casually, then shoots upright, panic-stricken. “Why? Does it look bad?”

Kiyoomi blinks. “Uh, no. It looks… good.” He’s conscious of the way Osamu stares at them, movements slowing in his periphery as he lays his tuba case down, but Atsumu has most of his attention—can’t _not_ when he’s giving Kiyoomi all of his, hand pressed over his chest in an exaggerated relieved manner.

“Thank god.”

Well, Kiyoomi’s compliment might have flown over his head as quickly as it had come out. He tries again after clearing his throat, as subtle as possible, “It looks good either way.”

Atsumu beams at that. “Right? I kinda think so too. They just kind of give off different vibes.”

There it goes again. Kiyoomi thinks he might give up, except he doesn’t. He stands up to begin setting up his instrument and tries not to think about the way Atsumu’s hair looks under the afternoon light filtering through from the window.

For some reason, every attempt Kiyoomi makes always fails, and it carries on throughout all of their four months. He’s starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with him, if his words aren’t coming out right, or that maybe it’s his delivery. Maybe he’s not presenting it in a way that’s obvious enough.

But then there’s Suna Rintarou and Miya Osamu, who seem to have caught up somewhere in between their rehearsals. The glances he receives but pretends not to notice are obvious when he’s speaking to Atsumu—so if _they_ know, then maybe Kiyoomi _is_ doing something right.

Then how come it still hasn’t gotten around to Atsumu?

Kiyoomi doesn’t think Atsumu is pushing him away. He greets him the same way every day. They text each other often enough for him to know they’ve at least gone past the border of acquaintances—he’d go as far as to call them friends, but every time he has attempted a confession, Atsumu has never picked up on it. Is that what he's ultimately destined to be? Is Kiyoomi hard-stuck in a zone where Atsumu forces a friendship on him because he can’t see the possibility of him wanting _more?_

He remembers commenting on how nice Atsumu had smelled one night after rehearsal and then hears the bright laugh that followed. Kiyoomi had no idea what was so funny, but Atsumu had leaned in close enough to Kiyoomi to fear the beating of his heart would reach more ears than just his own, and he asked him to smell again.

“It’s new,” he had said, a little too proudly, “got it at this market I visited last week while seein’ my ma in Hyogo. Do ya like it? Smells _so_ good. If you want I can get you one next time I head down!”

Efforts go down the drain, and sometimes it’s not even Atsumu’s fault. Two weeks ago, he had heard Atsumu talking about some movie he wanted to watch but couldn’t find anyone to go with, despairing over the fact that it’s going to be out of theatres soon. Kiyoomi grabbed at the opportunity, hungry and greedy, and asked Atsumu if he wanted to watch a movie that evening. Atsumu’s eyes had lit up, and Kiyoomi thought finally— _finally_ —until Atsumu told him he got a couple of his friends to go with him, and offered that Kiyoomi went with them.

“I had no idea you were into movies like that, Omi! Why didn’t ya say somethin’ sooner? I’ve been _dyin’_ to see it.”

God, Kiyoomi felt like he was playing a game he couldn’t win even if he knew all the answers. Atsumu had felt like a puzzle with one of its middle pieces lost at sea, and Kiyoomi couldn't reach the bottom to find the sunken part.

Like hell he won’t try, though.

“What are you doing tonight?” Kiyoomi asks just as Atsumu slots the mouthpiece of his trumpet back in place.

“Goin’ home, probably. Why?”

Kiyoomi swallows once. “Let’s get dinner.”

Atsumu looks up, movements frozen, and they stare at each other for an entire two seconds before a wide smile cracks across golden skin, eyes lighting up immediately. Kiyoomi must have done something right, he thinks, but then Atsumu turns from where he’s sitting on the back of his heels.

“Yer gonna buy us dinner?”

Kiyoomi blinks. “No, that’s not what I—”

“Guys! Omi-kun says he’s treatin’ us tonight!”

The entire room breaks out into a chorus of hollers.

Dinner at the izakaya that they frequent every time they go out for outings is the same as last time, but Kiyoomi downs his sake immediately, and raises his cup in Atsumu’s direction. He ignores the narrowed eyes pointedly observing the side of his face as he watches thick fingers reach for the sake to pour into his cup again.

And down it goes.

“You okay?” asks Atsumu quietly, as though he were testing the waters. “Ya don’t actually have to treat everyone. I’ll split half with ya.”

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi states, finally lifting his gaze to meet curious ones with a hint of suspicion behind their glint. He didn’t think asking someone out on a date could be so difficult. Motoya had told him to _be cool_ with it—what the hell does that even mean? They both know he’s pretty straightforward, but perhaps not beating around the bush with Atsumu is the right way to go about it. He has _never_ in his life met someone as dimwitted and oblivious as Atsumu, but Motoya had assured him that he definitely _must_ take things slowly if he really wants this to work out.

And he does. He really does want things to work out well, but crushing on a bright boy with a blinding smile and _not_ being able to carry his intentions out properly seriously sucks. Kiyoomi orders a beer, then glances at Atsumu and orders another.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay? Tough week?”

Kiyoomi spins his sake cup with his fingers. “Something like that.”

Atsumu leans back into his seat, legs stretched out under the table, and Kiyoomi watches the way the buttons of his shirt pull like they’re ready to pop with the stretch of the muscles underneath. “Shit happens sometimes. I’m sure it’ll get better. Ya wanna talk about it?”

Yes, Kiyoomi wants to talk about it. He desperately _needs_ to talk about it, but he clamps his mouth shut, toe tapping rhythmically inside his shoe. “No, it’s fine.”

It definitely is _not_ fine, because Kiyoomi is stumbling out of the izakaya with an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders as support, eyes half closed and curls falling messily into his eyes and obscuring his vision. He doesn't know when the last time he had gotten this drunk was. Had it been three years ago, when he had attended his first party after a particularly difficult exam? Or was it last years, when he and Motoya went out with some friends to a karaoke bar after they had graduated? He doesn't know, doesn't really want to think about it as Atsumu steadies him on his feet.

“Hey, let’s call you a cab, yeah?” Atsumu grunts, and Kiyoomi is suddenly very aware of the hand around his waist. “Jesus, ya didn’t even drink that much. Didn’t think you were such a lightweight, Omi.”

“‘m not,” he grumbles out, then shrugs Atsumu’s arm off of him and, just to prove a point, begins walking in the direction his apartment is in. “Don’t need… a cab….”

Atsumu’s arms are around him instantly, guiding him away from the street sign of a ramen shop he nearly walks into. “Okay, okay, no cab, hearin’ ya loud an’ clear. How ‘bout I walk ya home?”

 _“You,”_ Kiyoomi grits, face leaning in close enough for their noses to touch, and lifts a finger to point right at Atsumu’s chest, “can not come home with me.”

Atsumu guides him down the sidewalk and muses out, probably just for the sake of conversation, “Why’s that, Omi?”

 _“‘Cause,”_ he slurs, turning the corner at the end of the street, “I know what… you’re doin’ to me.”

“And what am I doin' to ya?”

“You’re makin’ me... fall in love with you.”

Kiyoomi feels Atsumu’s steps come to a halt, but the brevity of it, in his drunken state, makes him think he might have imagined it; must have imagined the way Atsumu’s eyes flicker up to meet his own, and even in the haziness of his vision, black hair tickling his lashes, he can see the way the honey in those irises burn with fire. God, Kiyoomi wants to kiss him so bad.

“Let’s get ya home,” Atsumu whispers, smiles the same way he always does, and Kiyoomi feels his heart beat in his ear, breath caught at the back of his throat.

 _See?_ Kiyoomi thinks, fingers curling into the hand over his waist, _This is what you do to me._ He stays rooted in his spot, unyielding to the gentle tug that Atsumu gives.

"C'mon, Omi, ya can't stay there forever."

"Did you hear me, Atsumu?" Kiyoomi asks, leaning his head forward in an attempt to catch Atsumu's eyes. "I just said that I love you." When Atsumu says nothing, Kiyoomi reaches for the hand around his waist and pulls it off so he can step one foot ahead of the other, hands clamping down on broad shoulders. Atsumu stumbles back with the step Kiyoomi takes forward, and the movements repeat in a stuttered cycle until Atsumu is backed into the brick of the 24/7 laundromat in the neighbourhood.

"Omi..."

"I love you," Kiyoomi slurs out, eyes half-lidded and breaths heavy against the skin on Atsumu's chin. "Won't you look at me? Why won't you look at me?"

Atsumu's hands come to rest on Kiyoomi's shoulders. "Yer so far gone, Omi. Do ya want some water? Let's get you home so we can get some water in ya, how's that?"

Kiyoomi can see Atsumu so clearly like this with the streetlamp raining it's light down on them. Kiyoomi's head casts shadows on half Atsumu's face, but his eyes remain bright despite the worry evident behind them. They're closer—closer than that time, three months ago with Atsumu in his passenger side, groceries in the back; they're close enough for him to go cross-eyed if he wants to stare at the highlight of Atsumu's nose bridge.

He wants to kiss him so bad, it pulls a choked sob from the back of Kiyoomi's throat, and he lowers his head into Atsumu's shoulder, tears slipping from his eyes and into the cotton of Atsumu's white tee. He cries, wishes he can hold Atsumu like this forever while knowing this is going to be just like a figment of his imagination, short and unclear behind a haze that paints over, except he hears his imagination might outlast tonight. His arms curl around Atsumu's waist and hugs him so impossibly tight he can feel the breaths from Atsumu's lips against his neck. He doesn't want to let go. Is he a bad person for that?

If he is, then Kiyoomi is tired of being a good person.

But somewhere deep inside, he knows, with terrifying consciousness, that Atsumu brings out the best and the worst in him, and the worst is over, Kiyoomi decides so. He leans back, sniffles, and wipes the tears away from his face with a mumbled apology, and turns on his heels to walk home. Atsumu is by his side in an instant, and the regret pulls and tugs at his heart. _This is what you do to me. You've made me like this, and it's because I like you._ Why does it take alcohol for him to confess his feelings? Why couldn't he have just done this in the first place, say it like how it is? Would Atsumu have listened if he was sober? If he hadn't offered to walk Kiyoomi home tonight, would he ever, in the future at all, have this chance to tell him?

They make it to his apartment in one piece despite the usual fifteen-minute walk having taken them double that, but he doesn’t really care; can’t really tell how long it’s been with the way he desperately wishes for Atsumu to _stay._

“Keys, Omi-kun, where are your keys?”

Kiyoomi fumbles with it inside his coat pocket, and, in the end, it’s Atsumu who gently peels his hand away to stick his own in there. He helps him up the steps and unlocks the door for him, makes sure he’s properly in his bed, all four limbs, before pulling his comforters all the way up to his chin. Kiyoomi passes out right away and doesn't see when Atsumu reappears inside his room to set a glass of water and an aspirin on his nightstand.

When he regains consciousness, it’s bright and early, or he assumes, because the sun filtering through his blinds is too gentle and the whisper of the wind tickling his cheeks is a little chillier than when it’s in the afternoon. He reaches groggily for his phone to check the time and sighs a breath of relief, head knocking back into his pillow, when he realizes he’s got more than enough time to get ready for work.

The events from last night come hitting him like a freight train, and he calls Motoya as fast as his brain can process all the idiotic things he said just ten hours ago.

“Hello?”

“Motoya. I made a mistake.”

“Uh oh, that doesn’t sound very characteristic of you. Is it about Miya?”

 _You’re making me fall in love with you._ The words echo at the back of his head, accompanied by a gasp from his phone.

 _“Yes,_ it's about him,” Kiyoomi groans out, running a hand across his face. “I have to tell him. I think I already did.”

He remembers shoving Atsumu against a wall; knows he cried into his shoulder.

 _“What?_ What do you mean you already did?”

Recalls the warmth of Atsumu's body against his own when Kiyoomi had pulled him into a hug tight enough to choke out a sob.

“Look, okay, I don’t know. I don’t really remember. I think I might have confessed to him last night while I was… drunk.”

_“Drunk?”_

The way he had repeated _I love you, I love you, Atsumu_ into his face like he was trying to tell it to someone who couldn't hear him.

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”

“I’m not repeating everything you—ugh, okay, what did he say?”

Kiyoomi’s mouth falls open and nothing comes out. What did Atsumu say? Why can’t he remember? He sits up, curses quietly at the pounding at the back of his head, and runs a hand back in his hair, a mess of curls on his head. Fuck.

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh my _god,_ Kiyo. First, you get drunk, and then you—”

“Can you _please_ just help me fix this,” Kiyoomi groans out, voice borderlining a whine, and kicks at his covers, frustrated.

“Okay, fine, it’s fine. Maybe he doesn’t remember.”

“And if he does?”

“Then just own up to it, I guess. There’s no point taking it back—it’ll probably do worse if anything.”

The showerhead sprays hot water down his body as Kiyoomi thinks, but nothing comes to mind. He’s basically grasping at straws at this point. He’s going to try again—he has to. There’s no other way to mend a relationship if he’s already cracked it this far, all because he had been irresponsible in his drinking last night. It’s fine. It’s Monday. He has the entire five days to think about how on earth he’s going to go about it.

He can always just pretend it didn’t happen, but that won’t work if Atsumu is the one who brings it up. He’ll make his last attempt Friday night, right after rehearsal. He’s just going to come clean with it—tell Atsumu right off the bat, no beating around the bush; straightforward, exactly as Motoya said _not_ to do.

He curses again, grumbling while brushing his teeth, and washes his face. He’s in the middle of drying his hair when he hears something clatter outside his bedroom. Kiyoomi freezes, blood running cold. Did someone break in? No, that can’t be—this is a safe neighbourhood. He lives on the third floor, and he never forgets to lock his door. Kiyoomi steps out of his washroom and whips his bedroom door open, fist tight around the handle, and stares right at Atsumu. It’s like that time at the grocery store, one month ago, when they had accidentally ran into each other and held a staring contest.

A wave of embarrassment spreads across his body, makes his toes numb and his face hot. The back of his mouth tastes sour and Kiyoomi fights down the urge to slap himself in the face.

“Why are you here?” he asks because he doesn't know what else to say. He had thought Atsumu left last night after leaving him water and painkillers, which he had taken upon recognition. He was supposed to have more time. There's no way Kiyoomi can tackle this right now, hungover and mildly in a panic he doesn't realize had settled until Atsumu speaks, a little sheepish.

“Well, ya fell asleep last night, and I couldn’t lock yer door without yer keys, so I thought it’d be better if I just crashed. Sorry, I didn’t wanna wake ya up.”

Kiyoomi stares, eyebrow lifting just a little, then brings his line of sight to the pan currently in Atsumu’s hands, which is what he assumes made all the noise while he was in the washroom. He raises his gaze again to find that Atsumu’s eyes have dropped a little lower, and Kiyoomi is suddenly aware of just how naked he is under the towel around his waist.

“About last night—”

Kiyoomi cuts him off, “I’ll be right back,” and accidentally slams his bedroom door a little louder than necessary, but it’s not what he thinks about when there’s a _circus_ playing under his chest and, apparently, a garden of butterflies in his stomach.

He has about five minutes to change and come to a decision on what exactly he’s supposed to do before it starts looking suspicious, and the last thing he wants is for Atsumu to pry. Kiyoomi needs the upper hand in this, _desperately,_ and part of it is because he doesn’t actually _have_ five days—he needs this… _whatever_ this is, to come to a conclusion _now._ The other part is because he's still terrified of what happened last night, because all of it is just coming up now.

The door swings open, and Atsumu turns to look at Kiyoomi, who is now dressed in his work attire, spatula in hand.

“Was gonna make you a quick breakfast since ya had such a late night. I’ll be outta yer hair in a moment.”

“Atsumu.” There’s a brief silence. Kiyoomi doesn’t think he can take this anymore. “I need to—”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Atsumu interrupts immediately and turns away to work on whatever is cooking on the stovetop. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Have breakfast with me.”

“I’m sure yer busy and got work soon, so it’s fine," repeats Atsumu.

Kiyoomi drums his fingers against the counter, unsure of how to go about this. He remembers Motoya’s voice telling him to just take things slow, don’t rush into it, be cool, and let it slip in, but he doesn’t think it’s going to work anymore.

“Are you aware of what I said last night?”

Atsumu pokes at the egg in his cast iron pan. His voice comes out small when he speaks, but Kiyoomi still hears it over the sizzle of the oil. “You were drunk, so I forgive you for saying something like that, especially if you didn’t mean it.”

Didn’t mean it?

 _“Didn’t mean it?”_ Kiyoomi echoes, appalled. He steps closer, incredulous. “Atsumu, have I ever said anything I don’t mean?” There isn’t an answer, so he continues, “Am I drunk right now?”

Atsumu snorts, rolls the _tamagoyaki,_ and then turns down the heat for the miso soup. “I sure hope not, ‘cause you’d be bringin' a disaster to yer workplace.”

“I’m not drunk,” Kiyoomi assures, watching the side of Atsumu’s face intently, then flicks his gaze down to the pan and up. He reaches forward, knocks Atsumu’s hand from the handle, and moves it off the heat before turning the heat off completely. He takes a hold of his wrist, spatula still in hand, and forces the blonde to look at him.

“I’m not drunk, and I am going to confess to you right now.”

“Omi—”

“You know what you always do? You always cut me off before I can finish. I am trying to tell you that I like you, Atsumu, and that I have tried multiple times to ask you on a date and failed miserably. I’m tired of being misunderstood, so I’m telling you right now, when no one can disrupt us, and I am making you listen, so I don’t have to say it again.”

It isn’t until Kiyoomi is done does he realize Atsumu’s hand shakes in his grip, and he releases it with a mumbled apology, but Atsumu pulls him right back in, spatula clattering on the countertop, to press his face into the side of Kiyoomi’s neck, hands grasping at the smooth linen stretched across his back.

Warily, Kiyoomi wraps an arm around Atsumu’s waist, like he’s afraid he’ll break him. Never in his life has he witnessed someone break down so quickly, put their vulnerability out on display so easily—and, well, it wasn’t easy (nothing with Atsumu is easy), but Kiyoomi cherishes this embrace they share in the middle of his kitchen on a Monday morning more than anything he has ever cherished before.

“‘m sorry,” Atsumu sobs, pulling him closer, and Kiyoomi raises his other hand to cup the back of Atsumu’s head, chin caressing the other’s temple gently.

“Why are you crying?”

“I didn’t know ya… liked me like that." He sniffles, arms falling to loop around Kiyoomi’s waist, and sputters out, words coming out muffled, “‘m sorry I made ya wait so long. I thought you were just... playin' around with me 'cause how could you ever like someone like me, y'know? I thought that since you were drunk and it was just the two of us, you were just sayin' a buncha random stuff. 'm sorry, please forgive me, I was an idiot.”

Kiyoomi pushes Atsumu by his shoulder so he can look him in the face, then smiles, even as the tears slip down Atsumu’s face. Vulnerable, just like he had thought. Loves easy, just as he had read that one time. Too hard, too much, but Kiyoomi thinks he can take it as he swipes his thumbs across his cheeks and doesn’t move them away.

“You’re not an idiot, Atsumu,” whispers Kiyoomi. “I was foolish for not coming up to you sooner.”

“No,” Atsumu whimpers petulantly, “me.”

“No, me.”

“Fine, you. Are you going to take me on a date tonight or what?” Atsumu mutters, raising a hand to rub at his eyes angrily.

“Well, I’ve been _trying_ to—”

“Jeez, ya don’t have to remind me every damn minute.”

Kiyoomi lifts Atsumu’s chin and asks him, “Can I kiss you?”

“I haven’t brushed m’teeth.”

“I don’t mind.”

When their lips meet, it’s chaste; it’s innocent, like neither of them have ever kissed before. It lasts for a few seconds, just a gentle press, but it’s enough to make Kiyoomi feel like he’s living inside a fairytale, convinced that sometimes, dreams do come true, even between two boys who didn’t know better but love like it’s the easiest thing to do in the world.

Now, Kiyoomi can’t say he’s experienced simple love before, but he thinks this might be it; thinks Atsumu might be the only one he can fall in love so quickly for and for so long—long enough to pull a desperation he didn’t know he had out of him.

“Can I have your number?” Kiyoomi asks after leaning back just enough for him to gaze into glistening orbs and clumped lashes.

“What?”

“What days are you free? What does your schedule look like?”

“Omi?”

“I like you, and not just as a friend, like you misunderstood that one time. Your hair looks nice when you wax it, but it looks softer like this.” He trails the hand that he had been resting on Atsumu’s cheek into his hair, finally gets to feel them between his fingers like he’s been envisioning in his dreams.

“You smell nice, where did you get your cologne? Are you free Saturday after rehearsal? I overheard you talking to your brother about a movie you wanted to see. No, I don’t want to go with your friends.”

Atsumu laughs nervously, eyes cast downward, with a blush spreading across his cheeks. “What are you talking about?”

“Let’s get dinner, just the two of us.”

“Oh.”

Kiyoomi hums, pleased, and leans back with a smirk. “Those were all the times I tried to ask you out.”

 _“What?_ Even when ya—oh my god, when ya _demanded_ me for my _number?_ Couldn’t you have phrased it better? I thought—ya know what? Yer just as bad at this as I am,” Atsumu speaks with a scoff, disbelieving, and crosses his arms. Then, quietly, “Say it again.”

Kiyoomi almost asks him _say what?_ but he has a feeling he knows anyway, since he’s been trying to say it for the past four months. He isn’t afraid to say it again and again, as many times as Atsumu wants him to—needs him to—he’ll say it. He’ll say it right now as he, without thinking, leans in to press a kiss into the side of Atsumu’s cheek, quick and sweet, and takes one of Atsumu’s hands in his.

“I like you,” Kiyoomi mumbles, then presses a kiss to Atsumu’s forehead. “I like you. Don’t pout, I like your smile.”

Atsumu sucks his lips in, but Kiyoomi can see the smile threatening to break across his face anyway, and then lands another one on his mouth. “Do you want me to say it again?”

“Yes, but the other one.”

Kiyoomi's eyes narrow in confusion. "What other one?"

"The one you said last night."

Ah, that's right. Kiyoomi didn't say _I like you_ last night. He laughs against Atsumu's cheek.

“I love you.”

Atsumu laughs, the most genuine Kiyoomi has ever heard it, the happiest he has ever seen Atsumu, and he thinks about saying it tonight, when he’ll finally be able to take Atsumu on a date, just the two of them, and he’ll say it tomorrow morning, through a text or through a good-morning call, maybe both. He’ll say it when they move in together one day, maybe next year, or maybe in a few months when Kiyoomi knows Osamu will be moving out, and he’ll say it a million times.

“I love you Atsumu.” Kiyoomi reaches out a hand to turn the heat of his stovetops back on. “Now, will you have breakfast with me?”

Atsumu doesn’t make him ask twice.

**Author's Note:**

> WHEW OKAY i had another draft for this with 13k ish words BUT I DECIDED I DIDNT LIKE IT LMAOO so i decided to write something else aka why im so terribly late to day 5 of sakuatsu fluff week 2021 !!! but !! i think it came out all right ?? ? not my proudest work, admittedly a little sloppy, but i wanted to get it in on time more than anything so THANK YOU FOR PUTTING UP WITH ME <3
> 
> come find me on my [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/milkocaine) since im always a hoe for friends HAHAHA
> 
> you can find my other days for sakuatsu fluff week 2021 listed in my works!


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